


Timing Is Everything

by T Verano (t_verano)



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: 2012 Secret Santa drabble for snowball prompt, M/M, Snowball Fight, Winter fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2020-03-30 01:25:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19031899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_verano/pseuds/T%20Verano
Summary: A cabin in the mountains. Snow. Jim. Blair.A winter-sports ficlet. :-)





	Timing Is Everything

**Author's Note:**

> written for the 2012 TS Secret Santa Drabble Days prompt "snowball/snowball fighting"

The cabin is warm and cozy, the fire Jim built crackling merrily away in the fireplace, and the Kahlua-spiked hot chocolate Blair made is smooth and rich, with a nice little kick to it. It's a good ending to a good day, a day filled with cross-country skiing, snow angels (Blair's contribution to the local scenery every time he tripped over his own skis, which was more than once), and an old-fashioned, no-holds-barred snowball fight.

Which Jim won, of course. He shoots a smug look over his shoulder towards the tiny kitchen alcove, where Blair is futzing around with the refrigerator. "You looking for some humble pie in there?" Jim asks and grins at Blair's muttered, "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up all you want. Winning gracefully is an art, Jim, and one you need to brush up on."

Jim chuckles. "Like you need to brush up on the art of losing gracefully?"

Blair doesn't answer, but Jim can imagine the pout he's wearing.

At least he made the hot chocolate before he decided to start sulking. Jim can take credit for that, though, since he waited to start rubbing in his victory until Blair had finished doing his thing with the milk and chocolate and Kahlua. Timing is everything, after all.

One of the logs in Jim's carefully built stack burns through and Jim gets up from the sofa and crouches in front of the fire with the poker in hand, contemplating the most efficient arrangement for the logs he's got left.

He doesn't notice anything until it's too late.

Until something round and clumpy and wet and _icy_ is stuffed down the back of his sweater.

Something very like a fucking _snowball,_ from the fucking _freezer,_ and he swivels on his heels and makes a grab for Blair, who's danced himself out of immediate reach, laughing like a demented three-year-old.

"So which is it," Blair says, between chortles, "you get the 'gracefully' part wrong, or just the 'lose' part?"

Too close; he's let himself get within Jim's reach, and he goes down — comes down onto Jim's chest, Jim tugging him down, and Jim shuts out the cold wet lump melting between his shoulder blades because hell, Blair's laughing down into his face, his mouth inches away, his eyes bright, and he's saying, "We're making floor angels now?" and that's it, that's enough, Blair is done for, as far as Jim is concerned.

Kahlua and hot chocolate taste even better on Blair's lips than they do straight from Jim's favorite Jags mug.

They taste perfect.


End file.
